


shelf

by threefouram



Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, fluff & humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 02:03:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11347584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threefouram/pseuds/threefouram
Summary: ' The writer tilts his head slightly, looks him dead in the eye before approaching. He reaches out for a book with utmost ease, not breaking eye contact for a second. He hands it to Basilio — a copy of The Little Prince — smiles a little as he asks, "This what you're looking for?"Basilio just stares at him for a moment, then sighs as he lands himself onto the floor. He scratches at his wrist and palm, but smiles back at Isagani anyway. "Yeah, that," he mumbles, nodding dumbly as he takes it in his hands. 'or: in which Basilio just wants a book.





	shelf

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: I love Crispin. I love him, I promise.
> 
>  
> 
> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/saaille).

Basilio wouldn't call himself short, not particularly.  
  
But, Isagani's shelf hangs high enough above his desk to get him in the predicament he's in— kneeling on the piece of furniture, hoping to God that the wood is sturdy enough to hold him up, hand stretched out as he reaches blindly for one of his partner's books.  
  
The med-student huffs, slouching down on the desk as he puts aside yet another book— it's the third one he's taken out— that _still_  wasn't the one he'd been looking for. (He looks to what he's managed to retrieve so far: some collection of Edgar Allan Poe's work, something by Walt Whitman whose name amuses him for some reason, and a Tagalog copy of Florante at Laura.)  
  
He sighs. "This shouldn't be this hard," he grumbles under his breath. He runs a hand through his hair, narrowing his gaze at the shelf. He lets out another puff of air. "He's only like, half a foot taller than me _at most_. How am I struggling this much?"  
  
This is almost too much effort for a stupid book.  
  
And then, Isagani walks in — sees his boyfriend kneeling on his desk, looking dejected as he moves to put three books back on the shelf — and raises an eyebrow. "Basilio?"  
  
Basilio startles. "Oh," he says. "HI?"  
  
The writer tilts his head slightly, looks him dead in the eye before approaching. He reaches out for a book with utmost ease, not breaking eye contact for a second. He hands it to Basilio — a copy of _The Little Prince_ — smiles a little as he asks, "This what you're looking for?"  
  
Basilio just stares at him for a moment, then sighs as he lands himself onto the floor. He scratches at his wrist and palm, but smiles back at Isagani anyway. "Yeah, that," he mumbles, nodding dumbly as he takes it in his hands.  
  
"Are you going to see him today?"  
  
He takes in a deep breath, shrugs. "It's his birthday," he replies, as if that answer explained itself. He pauses. He furrows his brows slightly, steps a little closer toward Isagani. "Did you want to come?"  
  
"No, no," Isagani says, letting out a flustered laugh. "He's your brother. Go have your moment."  
  
Basilio hums back. "I miss him."  
  
"I know, darling."  
  
He raises his eyebrows, as if to say  _darling?_  
  
Isagani only laughs, leans down to kiss him.  
  
When they break apart, Basilio moves to rest his head against the writer's shoulder for a while. He fiddles about with Isagani's fingers— even pulls out his engagement ring once, marvels at the simple band before putting it back where it belonged— lacing and unlacing their hands as his own becomes restless. (Isagani just chuckles at him, like he finds this all to be endearing. Which, he really kind of does.)  
  
"You could have just told me, that you wanted to get the book," Isagani tells him quietly. Basilio laughs softly against him. He feels the other man nod. "It was his favorite book, wasn't it?"  
  
"Yes, well..." Basilio retracts himself. "He liked the pictures, and that I— that I read it to him? I mean, he was seven so I think it's probably the only book he ever got to know,  _really_."  
  
Isagani doesn't respond immediately.  
  
Basilio doesn't really mind.  
  
"Cemeteries aren't my thing," the writer finally says.  
  
The med-student shrugs. "He's my brother anyway," he mumbles, echoing Isagani's words. He musters out another smile. "I'll have my moment, read it to him. Then— Then I'll come back here, to you. And then I'll be okay, and then we'll be okay."

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/saaille).


End file.
